Harry Potter and the Boy who Lived
by Nabe
Summary: Harry Potter was never marked by Voldemort. But the more the world changes, the more it stays the same. This story follows Harry's first year at Hogwarts.
1. The Boy Who Lived

The patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, and even old Tom himself, stood out behind the pub to watch the firework display over their heads, in the air above Diagon Alley. Dedalus Diggle had been at it for several hours now, and had been ignoring halfhearted requests to desist from the Magical Law Enforcement for about as long. Every half-hour, under the explosions, an official could be faintly heard to declare, "Mr. Diggle, please come down from the roof." But with a smile on his face, he returned his gaze to the show above. Public disturbances aside, when else could all of Wizarding Britain celebrate as one? After all, it wasn't every day that You-Know-Who was defeated.

///

Far from the fireworks in London, the sky above Longbottom Manor was lit only by the waning moon. The grounds below were black as pitch, save for a soft flicker from the first floor window, where two shadows danced in the firelight.

In a sofa and armchair across from one another, the two women sat and shared a pot of tea. There was too much to say, so neither said a word.

Just after the third Refilling Charm, the flames in the grate turned from red to green. They swelled up, and then a man walked out, bent to avoid hitting his head on the mantel. He held a small child in one arm, wrapped in a blanket.

"So they're dead, then," said the shorter of the two women.

"I'm sorry, Augusta," said Albus Dumbledore.

"Don't be, they made their own choice," she said. "Give the boy to Fenny, I had her bring down Franklin's crib from the attic."

Dumbledore removed the Bubble-Head Charm from the baby, which he had placed to keep out the sooty air of the fireplace, and handed him to the house-elf that had appeared when her name had been spoken.

The other witch sat up in her chair to get a better look at the baby. "Is that-?"

"Indeed, Minerva," said Dumbledore. "He'll have that scar forever."

"So then it's true? You-Know-Who is gone?" she said.

Augusta scoffed. "A Longbottom never did anything by half. He's gone, Minnie."

"I sincerely hope that to be the case," said Dumbledore. "I personally am looking forward to once again reading about knitting patterns and Quidditch scores in the Prophet."

"Tea, Albus?" asked Augusta. "If you can spare the time, of course."

"Certainly," he said. "As a matter of fact, Minister Bagnold wanted a chat, but I am in no hurry." He took out his wand to conjure a chair, but Minerva moved to the open space on the sofa with Augusta Longbottom. Smiling, he sat and poured a cup of tea, then pulled a yellow candy from his pocket and popped it into the cup, stirring and prodding it with his wand as it quickly dissolved.

"Is anything left of the house?" Augusta asked.

"Yes, and the wards are still intact, so please go over whenever it suits you to retrieve any personal effects."

A nod of ascent from Augusta signalled another long period of silence. Dumbledore sipped his tea, seemingly contemplating the painting of a sodden cat caught in a rainstorm that hung across the parlour.

"Well, I'll just go and check in on the little hero before bed," said Augusta, setting down her cup and pushing herself onto her feet. "Feel free to finish your tea, and you know where the Floo is... good night, Albus, Minnie." And she went upstairs. Minerva fixed Dumbledore with a stern look.

"How? How was You-Know-Who bested by that boy? How on Earth did he survive?"

"Perhaps it is, as Augusta suggests, the indomitable spirit of the Longbottom family. We can only guess," said Dumbledore, setting down his teacup and standing to leave. "We may never know."

She sighed. "Are you going to join the celebrations?"

"Not tonight, I'm afraid," he said, waving his hand to spark the dying embers in the grate. "It seems that even when I call impromptu school holidays, I can't quite escape the many duties biting at my heels. It is very possible that the festivities will continue for at least another week, however, so there may be time yet." He tossed a handful of powder from his pocket into the flames. "Have fun, Minerva. Ministry for Magic!" Stepping into the grate, he was gone.

Minerva McGonagall knew Augusta Longbottom quite well. She had not gone upstairs to check on her grandson; the house-elf would make sure he slept peacefully. No, Augusta put on a hard face, but she had really gone upstairs for privacy, and Minerva knew her company couldn't truly help.

A second green flash briefly illuminated the grounds through the first floor window to signal Minerva's departure. As fireworks burst over Diagon Alley, as Dumbledore and the Minister discussed large-scale breaches of the Statute of Secrecy, as Augusta Longbottom wept and wept, people meeting all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying: "To Neville Longbottom – the boy who lived!"


	2. The Letters from No One

Harry Potter was, thus far, having what he felt was a much better summer holiday than usual. On his cousin Dudley's birthday, his aunt and uncle had been forced to bring him along to the zoo, where he had been allowed a lemon ice lolly, and had even finished the first of Dudley's two knickerbocker glories. What's more, Dudley and his friend Piers Polkiss hadn't hit him once the whole day, a trend which had happily continued every day since, because Dudley had been too busy finding new ways to break all the birthday presents he had received, one by one. Harry thought privately that this was an impressive summer undertaking, since Dudley had received more presents from the entire Dursley clan than there were days in the season.

And now that the summer was coming to a close, Harry had something else to look forward to; for the first time in his life, Harry and Dudley wouldn't be attending the same school. Besides beatings, Dudley and his gang also made it their job to let everybody in school know that Harry's oversized clothes, taped glasses and messy hair were simply not to be tolerated. And no one ever argued with Dudley.

But now, Dudley had a place at Uncle Vernon's old school, Smeltings. It was a boarding school, and occasionally Harry allowed himself the fantasy of being allowed to use Dudley's bedroom while he was away. Fantasies were a good way to pass the time, and since there was nothing but time to be had when locked in the cupboard under the stairs, Harry was very good at fantasizing.

A crucial piece of the school uniform at Smeltings was a knobbly stick, to be carried throughout the day's lessons. This was necessary for hitting one's classmates around the shins when teachers were not looking, which was intended to build character. Whether the person being hit or the person doing the hitting was supposed to be building character, however, was anyone's guess.

Ever the eager student, Dudley had taken to carrying his Smeltings stick everywhere he went and banging it on any surface within reach. At breakfast one morning, it was the kitchen table's turn for punishment, so it fell to Harry to retrieve the post when it clattered through the letter-box.

Just under a postcard depicting a sailboat atop the shining sea, there was a letter. Harry picked it up and stared unbelievingly at the front of the envelope.

_Mr H. Potter  
__4 Privet Drive  
__Little Whinging  
__Surrey_

Being the only H. Potter in the house, Harry was reasonably sure that the letter was addressed to him. Still, it felt almost forbidden, as if it were one more thing he might be punished for, and he had almost decided to quietly hide the letter in his cupboard when Uncle Vernon shouted for him to hurry up. Jumping out of his daze, he returned with the mail to the kitchen, where he handed the postcard and a bill to his uncle and began to slowly open the letter in the lap.

_Easy_, he thought. _Don't make a sound... just a little more..._

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly, no longer interested in flogging his mother's empty seat at the table. "Dad, Harry's got something!"

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter when it was snatched away by a grubby hand.

"That's _mine_!" said Harry, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open with one hand and glancing at it. He glanced again, longer this time. At the third glance, Harry noted that his uncle's beet-red face could hardly be a good sign.

"Petunia, darling?" he managed, his calm tone in harsh contrast with the throbbing vein on his temple.

Aunt Petunia made a careful approach, and gingerly took the letter that Uncle Vernon had silently held up for her.

As she finished reading the letter, she looked happy, which then changed to confusion. "But Vernon, this is good news!"

Harry's heart sunk. If the letter held good news for the Dursleys, he didn't see how it could be good news for him.

"Get out, both of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside the envelope.

Harry left the room willingly, while Dudley was thrown out by the scruff of his neck. But it didn't make much difference, since they both listened at the door anyway.

"What kind of- Of all the- Can't even begin to- Irresponsible-" sputtered Uncle Vernon. "Where the bloody hell was he to begin with?! First word we've had in the whole ten years, and we've paid out of our own damn pockets, and now this?"

"But surely you're going to write back-"

"No! No, no, no! He is _not_ going anywhere until we see some compensation! That's the least we deserve!"

///

When the post arrived the next morning, Uncle Vernon insisted on going out into the hall instead of Harry. Amidst muttered cursing, Harry could hear the sounds of paper being torn. Resolutely, he stabbed his single strip of bacon with his fork.

They knew. Whoever had sent the letter, they knew he hadn't gotten the first one. Maybe, just maybe, there would be another chance.

///

There were many more chances, it turned out. When the letters began coming in threes, Uncle Vernon stayed home from work to nail the letter-box shut. When letters found their way in through cracks under doors and basement windows, Uncle Vernon nailed the doors shut as well, whistling softly to himself.

On Sunday, a single letter fell out from the fireplace, and Uncle Vernon rushed over to pick it up. Tearing it up, he stooped over to throw it into the fire, and stopped. Where the first letter had been on the floor, there was an identical one. Picking that letter up, he discovered another letter in its place, as if it had been right underneath. Dumbfounded, Uncle Vernon spent the afternoon tearing up the carpet underneath the letter to properly remove it. When he found another letter underneath the carpet, he announced it was time for a change in scenery, tore down the boards on the door, and rushed everyone out in a hurry.

That was how, several days later, Harry found himself on the cold floor of a lighthouse, on a small island, in a terrible storm, counting down the seconds to his eleventh birthday on the watch attached to Dudley's dangling arm.

Three – two – one –

"Happy birthday, Harry," he whispered to himself.

"Happy birthday, Harry," said a voice from the door.

He whipped his head around to look. The door had seemingly vanished into thin air, and in its place stood a man with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing what might have been a raincoat if it had not been made of cloth.

"Wha... who are you?" said Harry.

"So you didn't get my letter, then?" The man smiled. "I'm your godfather. Name's Sirius Black."


	3. Sirius Black

"Can I come in out of the rain?"

Rather than waiting for a reply, Sirius Black stepped into the room. Harry wouldn't have replied anyway, as he was occupied with getting his lips close enough together to form words.

Harry had never been told when he was younger not to talk to strangers. Perhaps it was intentional, the Dursleys' train of thought being that if strangers took him away, they would have more cupboard space. Regardless, this left Harry feeling not scared, but only curious about how his godfather, whom he had never met or known to exist, had been able to find him on an island.

"How did you get here?" asked Harry.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear a word of that," he replied, twiddling his little finger in his ear to displace water. "But wait, that reminds me," he said, turning to the door, and waving something from his pocket, the door suddenly reappeared in its frame, muffling the noise of the raging storm. Harry's lips fell ajar once more.

"So, as it's your birthday," he said, reaching down his robe and pulling out a small box, "I thought we might begin with my first duty as godfather: cake!" He opened the box to reveal a small white cake with green icing, which read _It's Your Birthday, Potter_ in tiny, cramped letters. "Ah. Well, I told Kreacher to just leave it plain if he liked," he said, frowning slightly, "but that's at least better than I might have expected." Reaching into his pocket once more, he took out a stick, and waving it as if he were conducting an orchestra, the icing slithered into place to read _Happy Birthday, Harry!_

Sirius chuckled at Harry's expression. "I know your aunt and uncle can't be the best people in the world, but don't tell me you've never seen a cake before."

Harry looked up from the cake to Sirius, dumbfounded. "How did you do that?"

"That," he said, spinning the stick between his fingers, "is a funny little charm I learnt from Dorcas Meadowes in my fourth year; her parents were bakers. You won't find it in your textbooks, mind – not much use at Hogwarts for specialized cake charms, but it was a big hit when I used it at Peter's birthday the next week."

"No, I- I mean, what was... what was-?"

The humour on Sirius' face dropped off straight away. "Dumbledore told me he left a letter with you... But they haven't told you a thing? They haven't told you about Hogwarts? About your parents?"

"I know about the car crash, yeah," said Harry, eager to get some hold on the conversation.

"Car crash?!" he shouted, causing Dudley to flinch and mumble something about turnips. "They told you your parents died in a car crash?! They didn't even own a car!"

He paced wildly in front of the fireplace, muttering to himself. Harry could make out snippets like "-wake them up-" and "-hex my arse-" while Sirius tried to burn a groove in the stone with his feet.

He stopped and looked Harry dead in the face. "You really don't know what you _are_?"

Harry shook his head.

Sirius put his hands on Harry's shoulders. "You're a wizard, Harry."

"I'm a what?!" gasped Harry.

"A wizard," he said very seriously, "and I'm a wizard, and your parents too. Now, if you'd like, I can take you out of here, away from your aunt and uncle, and you can live with me in London. I'm sure your dad would have wanted it that way from the start, but laws being what they are, you had to stay with your aunt until the Ministry could confirm you were magical. Bloody difficult they made it, too, but now there's evidence they can't deny."

"But I can't be a wizard," said Harry, shaking his head.

"Oh, there's proof enough of it right in here," Sirius exclaimed, patting his pocket proudly, "and as far as I'm concerned, it's all I need. If you're not convinced, you can read it later, but I'd like to be off straight away. But, I won't take you unless you want to come."

"Are you kidding? If you've got another raincoat for me, I'll leave right now!"

Sirius flashed the most genuine smile Harry thought he had ever seen, then looked down to Harry's knees, which was where the material of Dudley's gigantic old shirt ended. "That shirt's already big enough for a raincoat as it is!" He barked a mighty laugh, and Harry heard a sound from Uncle Vernon's room. "We'll have to worry about getting you new clothes to replace these hand-me-downs later. For now..." Sirius flourished what Harry now knew must be a magic wand, and the overlarge shirt grew until it covered Harry's feet. "That and a warming charm, and we're ready to go. Bring your bag if you like, but I can replace whatever's in it."

Just then, the door to the other room burst open, and slammed against the wall, revealing a ruddy-faced Uncle Vernon staring down the barrel of a rifle at them. Aunt Petunia was behind him, wielding a rolling pin she had brought with her for some reason.

"I knew I heard voices! Didn't I tell you, Petunia?!" Uncle Vernon gestured at them wildly with his gun. "And there they are, plain as day, plotting an escape!"

"Mr. Dursley," said Sirius, "pleasure to meet you. I'm-"

"I KNOW BLOODY WELL WHO YOU ARE!" he shouted. "And you'll not be going anywhere with that boy. As far as I'm concerned, he's my property until I see some recompense for the eleven years I spent feeding and housing him!" Harry scowled, both for being referred to as property and for the discovery that Uncle Vernon could indeed remember Harry's birthday, as long as it was of monetary value to him.

"Fair enough," said Sirius, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket, and handing it to Vernon, his eyes immediately bulging from his skull upon reading it. "I've prepared a draft from the bank, I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate. Harry, if you would." And he opened the door to let Harry exit.

"Well..." Harry searched around for something to say, but could think of nothing. "Goodbye, then."

Vernon feebly waved a hand in goodbye, as if swatting a mosquito. Sirius sighed and slammed the door, waking Dudley up so quickly that he rolled off of the couch, lifting a cloud of dust as he hit the cold ground.

///

They reached the shore, and Harry stopped to stare at the motorcycle which was inexplicably waiting for them on an island with no bridge to the mainland.

"How-"

"Don't worry, a little rain won't keep her from starting," said Sirius, looking proud to have properly guessed the question Harry had been about to ask. "Hop in. Oh, and you may want to hold onto your glasses."


	4. Diagon Alley

In all the stories Harry had ever read (belonging to the school library, because the Dursleys owned few books), wizards rode on broomstick, or perhaps atop a dragon if they were feeling adventurous. He had never before heard of any wizard riding a flying motorcycle.

Harry watched the lights of the houses below flashing by, and felt the cold rain and wind whipping around him as the motorcycle cut its path through the cloudy night. He had never ridden in an airplane before; it didn't seem like Sirius had either. But Sirius seemed happy despite the poor weather, and Harry could only agree. His heart felt lighter than it ever had, and the open air surrounding him was thrilling. He couldn't think of a better way to spend his birthday than this.

"Sirius!" he yelled over the rain and the engine. "You didn't have to give the Dursleys any money, you don't owe them anything!"

"It's okay, I've got loads!" he replied, looking over his shoulder with a sly grin. "Anyway, they'll need the money to hire someone to clean house – when you left, I filled it top to bottom with letters!"

They laughed all the way to London.

/

Sunlight. Cruel sunlight twisted across Harry's vision. What a dream it had been.

Harry sat up, and absentmindedly stared at a nearby mirror. He groaned. "What terrible luck."

"Don't worry, dear," the mirror replied in a gentle tone. "With a little coaxing, that hair will flatten right out."

/

"Hello, Harry," said Sirius, lowering his newspaper to eye Harry over the top of it. "Glad to see you've found the kitchen after all. I was about to send Kreacher to the john to see if you'd gotten the rooms confused."

"I'm sorry," said Harry, taking his seat quickly. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's a joke, Harry," he said, "don't worry. We're not in any hurry. Hey, that rhymes." Sirius snapped his fingers. "Kreacher, Harry's awake."

Immediately, a warm plate of breakfast clattered to the table, including a piece of the birthday cake that they had never gotten around to starting. Harry looked around wildly for the source. "You can make food appear by snapping your fingers?" he asked, dumbfounded.

Sirius chuckled. "Maybe some wizards, but all I did was ask Kreacher to keep your breakfast warm until you woke up. Take your time eating, your letter's already sent and I've not finished the paper yet anyway."

Grinning, Harry dug his fork into a potato. "You've sent my letter? What letter?"

"The reply to Hogwarts, telling them you'll be enrolling," said Sirius, and gestured at some papers laying on the table. "There's a list in there of all you'll need; I haven't read that yet, but I assume it's a wand, a cauldron, the Bathilda Bagshot book; standard fare. We'll get all that this aft, and after that we'll find time to head into Muggle London and get you some new clothes."

"Mggrl?" asked Harry, his mouth full of scrambled egg.

"Muggles," said Sirius, "non-magical people. The Dursleys for example, although your mother always assured me most Muggles aren't as bad as that." He sipped his coffee. "How did you sleep?"

Harry took a big swallow of orange juice. "I slept fine ... Sirius, if it wasn't a car crash, what did happen to my parents?"

Sirius looked at Harry for a long time before answering. "I'll tell you what, Harry.. We have a very long and enjoyable day ahead of us. Tonight, when we come back, I'll tell you everything. Is that alright?"

Harry nodded and returned his gaze to his plate.

/

"Harry, welcome to Diagon Alley."

He couldn't crane his neck fast enough. In every direction, there was something wonderfully new – candies and cauldrons, books and broomsticks, goblins and Galleons. Sirius led him up and down the cobblestone road, in search of the tools required of a student of witchcraft and wizardry. Harry was too busy taking in his surroundings to do much else, and in fact Sirius often found himself having to search around for Harry, who kept stopping at any number of places to just stand still and stare.

"We've saved the best for last, I think. Let's get you a wand."

They arrived at Ollivanders (Maker's of Fine Wands since 382 BC). A bell tinkled as they entered the tiny shop, and the two stood waiting. Harry felt his hair standing up, as if the air were charged with the magic of the many wands that lay in boxes piled to the ceiling.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped.

An old man was standing before them. He had grey, wiry hair, and a curious look on his face as he examined Harry. Suddenly, his features broke out into a smile.

"Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "I wondered when I'd see you step through my door."

He looked then to Sirius. "Alder and dragon heartstring, ten and three quarters long, somewhat unyielding, and its owner: Sirius Black. Something Tom the barman once told me springs to mind, from your fifth year – I heard it took Horace Slughorn a week to locate that tattoo."

Sirius shuffled his feet. "Fourth year, actually."

Mr. Ollivander smiled. "Well, Mr. Potter, let's see what we can do about finding you your wand."

The man hurried around the shelves picking out wands, and privately Harry thought that he seemed like a child in a sweet store. Then he smiled to himself; this was _Mr._ _Ollivander's_ store, after all.

Mr. Ollivander brought several wands over, and one by one he would hand one to Harry, ask him to "give it a wave," and then snatch it away again almost immediately. "Shame, I liked that one," he'd mutter to himself, or "Ah, I thought for sure..." Sirius was quite busy with studying his fingernails.

At one point, Mr. Ollivander ducked deep into his wand shelves, and walked right out of sight. Harry looked over to Sirius curiously, but his only reply was a shrug.

After quite some time, the man emerged again, blowing dust off of the surface of a tattered box as he came. "This one, I think. But let me make sure..." He set the box gently down on the counter in front of him, eased off the lid, and picked up the wand inside. He examined it from several angles, holding it up to the light and squinting his eyes. "Wonderful," he exclaimed, "just wonderful. Still just as good as the day I made it."

He continued to study the wand fondly, until Sirius cleared his throat.

"Ah, yes," he chirped, "here you are, Mr. Potter." Harry took it in hand and gave it a great sweep, and the room lit up with colourful sparks that quickly twinkled and dimmed.

Mr. Ollivander clapped his hands. "Yes, I thought so. You have your wand, Mr. Potter. 12 inches, oak, with a core of werewolf fur, if you can believe it."

Harry gulped. "A... a werewolf?"

"Yes, yes... tricky thing to get, you can imagine, and I never made another one like it – I daresay I'd nearly forgotten it was here. Very curious. But the wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter."

Sirius was oddly silent, so Harry and Mr. Ollivander both looked to him. "Mr. Black? It is alright with you that the core is werewolf fur, correct? I know it's not typical-"

"No, that's perfectly fine, I'm sure you know much more than me about wands," said Sirius, and he broke into a grin. "Sorry, I was still thinking about that tattoo."

/

After purchasing the wand, Harry and Sirius left the shop and walked down the street towards the Leaky Cauldron. Harry seemed lost in thought.

"So then, Sirius," he said finally, "there really are werewolves? Those aren't just stories?"

Sirius nodded. "That's right."

"And vampires," Harry went on, "a-and ghosts, and Frankenstein?"

"Frankenstein?" asked Sirius thoughtfully. "Is that a type of sausage?"

"But, why don't you ever hear on the news about vampires or werewolves?"

"The Muggle news, you mean? Well, the Ministry of Magic has treaties with the vampires, and werewolves these days take potions during the full moon to keep themselves in control, so there's not much that would be reported. There _are_ sometimes isolated incidents, but the Ministry makes sure those don't get out to the Muggle news."

"What did Mr. Ollivander mean when he said that werewolf fur wasn't typical?" Harry asked, although he was still processing the previous bit of information.

"Well, exactly that, it's not typical. Wands have cores made from magical things, usually from whatever creatures are native to the area – and here in Britain, that's typically things like unicorn hair or dragon heartstring, or phoenix feather. I can't say I've ever heard of a wand with werewolf fur inside."

"Oh."

"So your letter says you can have a cat, owl or toad. Let's go take a look, shall we?"

/

When Harry finally got back home, he was very tired. He went up to his bedroom, with his new snowy owl, Hedwig, and fell asleep straight away, forgetting all about Sirius' promise to tell him about his parents.

Sirius looked in on him and smiled, before closing Harry's bedroom door. It was only fair that he got all the rest he wanted, after his years with the Dursleys.

Sirius, however, would not be resting just yet. He walked back downstairs and straight to the fireplace. Grabbing a handful of Floo powder and tossing it into the fire, he declared, "Albus Dumbledore!"


End file.
